Maybe
by Misunderstood Beauty
Summary: I love you, three words, three simple, one syllable words, three words that can make a world turn upside down and inside out. Three words that could mean something. Maybe one day. RuthHarry post 505 Next part of the alphabet


Disclaimer: NOT MINE!!! Hopefully you got that.

This time it's G, H and I. I'm not sure about this one, I think I prefer the last one. I get the feeling J, K and L's going to be hard

Reviews are appreciated, and con-crit is most surely welcomed.

-

So good on paper  
So romantic  
But so bewildering  
I know nothing stays the same  
But if you're willing to play the game  
Its coming around again  
So don't mind if I fall apart  
There's more room in a broken heart

-Carly Simon - Coming around again

-

G is for grief.

-

Maybe one day he can see her again. Maybe one day he can make it alright. Maybe one day he can gaze into those grey eyes and say the words he has wanted to role over his tongue for heaven knows how long, _I love you_, three words, three simple, one syllable words, three words that can make a world turn upside down and inside out. Three words that could mean something. Maybe one day.

He hopes he's not just wishing. He hopes he's just dreaming. It seems strangely surreal after all. The sort of thing that only happens in movies. The sort of thing that doesn't happen in real, solid life.

They say that time heals everything; well it's not doing a very good job. Every new day that passes without her is life one more hole in his heart. One more tear rolling down his cheek. One more stifled sob remaining in his throat. One more pang of guilt.

He's fallen in love. A love that he's never experienced before. A love that neither pictures nor words can express. A love that overthrows life. A love that plagues the victim until it is requited. A love that persists forever and a day.

He knows that nothing stays the same forever. He knows that people move on. He knows that one day he'd have had to say goodbye. He knows that he would have had to let go sometime. It just seems so premature, like fate was taunting him, like God was ripping him apart for earlier sins. _She doesn't need hurting too, what has she ever done to you?_

Everything he had ever wanted has slipped away from under his fingertips. He has succeeded in ruining his first marriage and his relationship with his children for some stupid fling with the right-wing crazy who would use it to blackmail him once she had the authority. Then she had gone, maybe forever. His chances of a quiet life with a woman he loved where now close to zero.

-

H is for hopelessness.

-

He's been back to her house multiple times since he first went after she left him standing, helpless, hopeless at the docks. He went as soon after she'd faded from his eyes view. He'd scooped up a squirming Fidget and a few photos then left as swiftly as he had come.

Normally he just goes back to stock up from the large amount of cat food in her cupboards. Sometimes he just goes for the hell of it. He loved her house, its undeniably English charm, the scattered, scrunched up pieces of paper covering the faded carpets. He'd found his name written inside a heart on one of them. He'd immediately felt guilty, as though he'd stumbled upon something dirty, something deeply private. He'd still taken it and placed in on his fridge in the pride of place.

This time he goes back for more photos, more memories. He needs to keep the image of her face in his mind fresh, even though he's sure that it'll never fade completely. He runs the tip of a finger across the top of the mantelpiece, a stark line appearing against the dust. He'd anonymously brought the house; he kept it as it had been when she'd last left it. A museum of lost memories. A shrine to the stunning fiery eyes.

He looks at each photo as though it is made of gold, as though her face is etched in diamond and bordered in platinum. He stares into the dark depths of her soul through the greyness. That piercing look will never fade in his memory. It is engraved in his brain harder than any fact or figure could ever be.

Among the pictures he sees one of her dead stepbrother and Angela Wells. He scowls at it. To many bad memories exist in the smirking face. He wonders why she kept it.

-

I is for impossibility

-

He arrives home to the post. He notices a taupe envelope with the familiar calligraphy on it. He bends down and picks it up. He sees his name and address printed in a blue, flowing ink. He takes care not to rip the soft beige paper as he opens it.

_Dearest Harry,_

_And I believe in love,  
But what else can I do  
I'm so in love with you_

_What else can I say? That just about sums it up._

_I miss you more than words can express._

_Ruth xxxxxxxxx_

It's the 7th letter she'd sent him. She has added one more kiss for every letter sent. They are beginning to dominant his fridge. They are beginning to dominant his life.

Every night when he gets home he goes through the post, looking desperately for the memorable handwriting that he has become accustomed to.

He runs his fingers over her name. He doesn't know what it is now, he doesn't want to know. She's Ruth, she's utterly and uniquely _Ruth_.


End file.
